


to describe you

by deletable_bird



Series: rosemary is the true spice of life [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Worship, Bulges, Bulges and Nooks, Declarations Of Love, Early Mornings, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Flushed, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Kissing, Lazy Mornings, Love, Morning Sex, Mornings, Nook Eating, Nooks, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Post-Sburb, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Requited Love, Sex, Sexual Content, True Love, Xeno, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deletable_bird/pseuds/deletable_bird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You ride Kanaya slow and sweet, balanced against the steadiness of her legs and chest, her fingers laced in her own, and as you move together you wax lyrical, words of praise pouring from your lips, all for her. All for your love.</em>
</p><p>In which two matesprits engage in traditional slow, sweet matesprit morning activities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to describe you

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote femslash porn?? Also I didn't use vagina slang, of which I am unreasonably proud. Also this is pretty much just me entertaining myself. Please do not expect plot in this song-inspired series.
> 
> This particular creature was inspired by the song To Describe You (link: https://soundcloud.com/eduardomaruri/to-describe-you-kungs-mozambo-ft-molly) It's recommended to listen to the song while reading, but not necessary.

You love watching her work.

The way her hands - clever, clever hands - twist and fold fabric under the humming needle of the old-fashioned sewing machine she loves so much, is absolutely captivating, and you can sit for hours engaged in only the sparest of conversation, watching her work.

Today, the first thing you do is open her door, still sleep-warm and mussed from your bed, dressed only in an over-sized dress-tunic, and knock on the doorframe, giving her a rare, genuine smile as she looks up. She returns it wholeheartedly, and your stomach does a fabulous impression of a bird of prey swooping in for the kill at the sight of her troll-teeth slipping adorably over her lower lip as her smile spreads wide.

“Come in,” she tells you. Her room is, as always, full of windows with drapes drawn back and flooded with morning light. The windows are open and sweet Earth air is flooding in, along with the choir of forest birds and the sound of wind through dew-jeweled boughs. Picturesque and incredibly real.

You don’t sit on her bed as you usually do; instead you fold your arms over the back of her chair and lean over her shoulder, resting your chin on her collarbone. She huffs out a tiny, pleased noise and turns slightly to press a kiss to your temple.

“Do you want to talk?” she asks after a moment.

“No,” you tell her, then, “maybe. Actually, maybe not talking at all.” You turn your face into her neck and inhale her smell, that mysterious perfume that reminds you of fresh comfrey and raw honey, with an undeniably metallic undertone. You kiss her skin, reveling in the way she sighs at your touch, and smile against her.

“You’re giving me the impression that whatever activity you have in mind is something not-quite-talking but not quite watching me sewing either,” she whispers, turning towards you and tracing a line along your cheekbone with the tip of her nose. You let out a shaky breath and try to drag your mind away from the trail of sparks her touch is leaving.

“You might,” you say, pausing to inhale, your breath faltering in your throat, “be exactly right.”

You can feel her cheek’s press against yours as she smiles, and give a faintly surprised blink at the harsh mechanical sound her sewing machine coughs out as she shuts it off. She turns her whole body towards you this time as she shifts in her chair, her fingers coming up to stroke each side of your face, and she brings you oh-so-lightly towards her and presses the softest of kisses to your mouth.

Her tongue is slightly cooler than yours and tastes deliciously fresh against yours as you part your lips in tandem. Her hands trace down from your face along your neck before they splay over your shoulders, pushing your shirt down, baring your collarbones. The cool air hits your skin, coaxing a shiver from your spine. Her mouth doesn’t leave yours, but the tingles that her fingertips leave in their wake more than makes up for the fact that she isn’t kissing anywhere else.

She licks into your mouth, the intoxicating coolness of her stroking along the roof of your mouth making you gasp against her. She giggles, breathy and sweet, in return, and, unable to resist her, you fist your hands in her shirt and pull her to her feet.

She’s still giggling as you pull her backwards, trying to kiss her laughing mouth with a smile on your own face, and actually gives an honest belly laugh when you trip backwards, landing on her four poster with her on top of you. You try to stop smiling and fail miserably.

“Rose,” Kanaya gasps out, drawing a little away to gaze at you, breathless with laughter, “Rose, I can’t honestly say this is what I assumed you had in mind. You’re not one to go stumbling around laughing as you try to seduce me.”

“Maybe my plans change on the fly,” you say, stroking her cheek with your thumb, ravishing her face with your eyes. “Maybe I’ve become a professional improviser, but even if I have decided to alter my interests so drastically the outcome today will definitely be the same.” You pause, considering her. “If you’re agreeable.”

She kisses the ridge of your cheekbone, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth, still shivering with laughter. “Of course I am,” she says, and gives you an honest snog at last.

The feeling of kissing her is too delightful to ever want to stop, but you flip her over at some point so you’re on top and manage to wriggle her out of her shirt. Smirking up at her, you mouth down the center of her chest, pausing to nuzzle the velvet-gray of her breasts and rub your cheek, catlike, along the ridge of her ribcage and roughness of her jade-tinted grubscars, loving each and every goosebump that rises as the morning air, and your touch, awakens her skin.

You don’t break eye contact with her as you untie her sash and undo the hook-and-eye fastener on the side of her skirt. Ridiculous troll, getting dressed this early when she must have known all you were planning to do was take everything off of her again. She gasps out tiny breaths as you inch her garments down, kissing every inch of skin as it’s freed from the lamentable confines of clothing, and she actually lets out an open-mouthed whimper when you give the flushed lips of her nook a long, soft lick, quiet wet noises emerging from your point of contact.

Her scent-taste-flavor is stronger down here, that comfrey-freshness almost overpowering. She tastes copper and alum, honey-sweet and husky. You bypass her nook in favor of lavishing attention on the emerging tip of her bulge, pressing feather kisses around the edge of her sheath until her jade-greenness has ventured far enough out for you to wrap your lips around it.

Your fingers find her nook and you send a pair of them out to the front lines, pressing your index and middle slow, slower, slowest into her fluttering cool-warmth, drawing your lips and tongue delicately up and down the length of her emerging bulge, sometimes taking it into your mouth as far as you can, sometime just kissing, sliding lips slack-soft against her slick length. She’s gasping and mewling at your touch and her fingers are weaving through your hair, a mussing action effective enough to contend with your bed-head, but you don’t care.

It only takes a minute or two to coax her out into the open and once she’s fully extended you lace your right hand’s appendages through her slowly flicking bulge, and she makes a sound that goes straight to the pit of your stomach, delicious chill desire.

You push yourself up to a sitting position so fast you have to pause for a second to let your blood sort itself out, but once you’re steady you push yourself to your feet, stripping out of your night clothes and straddling Kanaya’s body, hovering over the slow, eye-drawing movement of her bulge. You reach down with one hand, the other pressing against her breastbone with only the tips of your fingers to balance you, and guide the tip of her bulge between your legs.

The incessant burn there dissipates and cool relief and almost unbearably sweet pleasure floods through you in a rippling wave as Kanaya’s bulge, as always with a mind of its own, works itself inside you. She’s not as warm as you, but her coiling flicking movement makes you gasp regardless and you have to bring your other hand down to steady yourself against her chest, your fingers finding the baby-softness of her breasts (shameglobes, she would argue, and probably very educatedly as well, but alien terminology is not your first priority at the moment). Her hands find your hips and you shift down to kiss her, tongues sliding slick-cool as her bulge finally wriggles completely inside you, sheathed to the root.

You distract yourself from the almost absent-minded stretch at your entrance with her mouth, lavishing most of your attention on her lips and tongue while slowly, oh-so-slowly working your hips down until you’re rooted in the cradle of her hipbones and there is nothing but overwhelming, rippling pleasure. Only then do you sit up, gripping her ribcage with a light-firm touch, fingertips rasping over her grubscars. She strokes up and down your thighs as you gasp out tiny mews of pleasure. The wind is constant and almost unbearably fresh against your bare body, birds still singing, sunlight slanting down through treetops and illuminating each and every dewdrop, diamond-like and elysian.

You ride Kanaya slow and sweet, balanced against the steadiness of her legs and chest, her fingers laced in her own, and as you move together you wax lyrical, words of praise pouring from your lips, all for her. All for your love.

“Oh,” you say, “oh, Kanaya, made for me,” your words punctuated with a gasp or a mewl, “to describe you is the one thing I can’t fathom to ever be able to accomplish.” Bring her hand to your mouth, kiss each fingertip, trail love across knuckles, express all your adoration in a single press of mouth against palm. “You, inside me, it’s pure paradise, it lets me fly.” She coils slow inside you and you have to pause, to catch your breath, to bring yourself back from the brink.

“I though I would never be the same,” you tell her, “after the game. After that much darkness. After everything, I felt as if I would never feel clean again.” You spread her fingers and place her palm against your cheek, turning your face into the touch. Your eyes flutter closed as her fingernails turn, trailing light and painless down your jawline. Bliss.

“You washed me clean, out here in our own little land,” you murmur against her skin. “You made me myself again and I can never repay you. You give me everything, you pour yourself out into making a life for us and I can think of nothing that I could ever do that would mean as much to you as you mean to me.”

She watches you as if you’re the only thing she’ll ever want or need, rapture glowing through her gaze and her parted lips and her arching back, and as her hands leave yours to splay against your stomach, fingertips stroking the undersides of your breasts, soft-light and beautiful, you tip over the edge with a breathless cry, sensation pouring through you like a waterfall, and you know she is the only thing you’ll ever need to be satisfied.

She holds you through the ripples of the aftermath, and when you come back around to full consciousness she’s still panting, her hands grasping the bed-sheets so hard her knuckles are pale. You swing back off her, the feeling of her slipping out of you unpleasant and relieving in equal measure, and wrap your left hand around her girth as you settle beside her, slipping the fingers of your right back into her nook.

She gasps for the pail barely minutes later and you hold her through it, her back pressed against your front with one of your hands soft and dexterous around her bulge and the other pressed against and into her nook. She shudders against you for almost as long as you must have shuddered against her, and once she’s done you pull her down onto the bed, reveling in her silken skin and the wind brushing over both of you and the fact that she’s here, she’s now, she’s _yours_.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a particular song you think I should write Rosemary porn for, please _please_ leave the name and artist in the comments below and I will investigate! Other than that, constructive criticism and kudos are greatly appreciated  <3 Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
